


the family business

by h_lovely



Series: spooky specials [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Disturbing Themes, Ghosts, Haunting, Herbalism, Horror, M/M, Magic, Mild Blood and Gore, Slow Burn, Spirits, Strangers to Lovers, Wakes & Funerals, mortician matsukawa, vaguely set in the 1970s, witch hanamaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h_lovely/pseuds/h_lovely
Summary: Matsukawa, a mortician who doesn’t believe in the occult.Hanamaki, a hedgewitch well acquainted with regions beyond.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Series: spooky specials [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1532525
Comments: 14
Kudos: 98





	1. penumbra

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!
> 
> A few additional warnings/things of note: As I have tagged, there is disturbing imagery in this chapter and even more in chapter two, so please tread lightly if blood/death/horror is triggering for you. Also, I have taken many creative liberties with the funeral parlor and setting, it's not meant to be an accurate depiction of funerals and funeral homes in Tokyo so take everything with a grain of salt I guess. 
> 
> Enjoy.

“Magic…the very word is _magic_. According to the scholars it means manipulating and controlling nature by supernatural means. Communicating with unseen forces and putting them to work—Unseen forces that have been known to man since the beginning of time, but cannot be captured and catalogued by physical science for the simple reason that they are not… _physical_. They’re far greater, they belong to the mind and the spirit. They are the ultimate reality. They are free of the bonds of time and space, they are everywhere, _always_. Yes…magic is everywhere. There is no doubt about it.” 

- _Witchcraft-Magic: An Adventure in Demonology_ , narrated by Vincent Price 

—————  ❦ —————

It’s hard to get the shade just right sometimes.

There’s a lot to be considered; complexion and lighting, shading and undertone. The overall palette is always a good place to start. A merlot for the lip or something less harsh, a peach or a natural mauve to blend with the warm hue over sculpted out cheekbones. 

Of course—sometimes there’s just not much that can be done. 

After all, makeup can only do so much for the sallow grey tinge of post-mortem flesh. 

Matsukawa swipes a brush over one closed lid, then the next, blending a bit of color into the lash line. He’s always had a steady hand, better with this quiet stillness rather than the oppressive forced calm of walking grieving family members through each offered package one urn at a time.

Floating from the little Panasonic transistor on the shelf behind him comes the tinny sounds of some American song he only vaguely recognizes, but Matsukawa’s foot can’t help tapping along with the dreamy beat anyhow. 

“There now,” he murmurs, plucking the tissue from the collar of the blouse he’d gently tucked the woman’s frail body into earlier. “You look lovely, trust me.”

It’d been an odd thing at first, watching his father and the other partners working under him, speaking to the dead as though they were no more than resting in a light slumber. But Matsukawa had grown up around it, witnessed his fare share of death mixed amongst life in such a nonchalant manner that he’d become mostly desensitized.

Now he can look upon this woman and see more than just a body. 

He hopes the palette he’s selected, the way he’s styled her hair, tied the silken scarf around her delicate neck—he hopes that these things will help her family see more than just a body too. 

Matsukawa Issei never really thought much about becoming a mortician. He didn’t have to—it was the family business after all.

—————  ❦ —————

It’s raining, which is appropriate enough for a cool autumn day in October, but perhaps even more appropriate for the two somber wakes Matsukawa had tended to earlier that day. 

And too—for the exhausted humid feeling weighing down his bones. 

Now though he finds himself rid of his usual navy slacks and vest, the little striped ascot, in favor of a silk collared shirt and jeans. For someone in his line of work, weeks weren’t end-capped by the call of weekend lethargy—death didn’t heed the salary man’s work week after all. But Matsukawa had some nights off, hours he could take for himself without worry of being needed and if he was, then he could most often be found in the converted apartment upstairs.

Tonight however, despite the rain, he has a standing date with a glass of Sapporo and the two friends that drag him into their usual izakaya haunt every other week like clockwork. 

He’s got a window seat, the only one in the narrow place, a booth cut into the wall just large enough for three or four grown men to curl up around saucy yakitori and intimate conversation. Outside the pavement reflects like mirror glass; impressionist paintings of neon flash signs. Yellow, purple, blue, in the rainwater puddles. 

“Really Mattsun, you should give him a call,” Oikawa is saying, highball half drank already. “The apartment feels so much more at peace since the last cleansing.”

Oikawa had always been a little bit eccentric, superstitious maybe, but also with a flair of dramatics that clashed with Matsukawa’s own calm, rational mind. What’s the saying—opposites attract?

“You really believe that stuff works?” Matsukawa murmurs around a bite of tender chicken and sweet scallion, teeth catching on the bamboo skewer. “It’s glorified incense.”

“I’ve known Makki for ages, he’s the read deal, _trust_ me,” Oikawa assures with little room for argument, as to be expected. 

Matsukawa lets a slick smirk creep onto his face. “Let’s not be too hasty here.”

“You’re just being difficult on purpose,” Oikawa huffs. The door opens to their left to let in a wet-chilled breeze and a couple of suits. “Hajime, tell him how nice our apartment’s aura is.”

Iwaizumi, for what it’s worth, manages to keep the hardest neutral expression on his face, despite Matsukawa knowing exactly which side he’s about to take. “I don’t really see the harm in it,” he says noncommittally. 

Matsukawa frowns, gripping the condensation slick sides of his mug. “See, that’s not an answer.”

“ _Hajime_ —”

“Alright, cool it,” Iwaizumi sends Oikawa a pointed look. “I’ll admit I was skeptical at first, but—well, the air does feel a bit different now.”

“Not you too,” Matsukawa groans but it’s mostly for effect. “The guy just wants your money. Auras and ghosts and omens—it’s all a business like anything else.”

“You work at a funeral home, Mattsun,” Oikawa says dryly, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. 

“That doesn’t mean I have to believe in ghosts,” Matsukawa states, eyes drooping. “Don’t pigeon hole me.”

“Let it go, Tooru. You can’t force him—”

“But I think he and Makki would get along so well—” 

Their waitress glides over to drop off another plate of shishito and chicken skin and remove their empties. Matsukawa stares down at the fatty meat, contemplating Oikawa’s whining.

“I don’t think I’d ever be able to get along with someone like that,” he admits, not unkindly, but just the blunt honest truth. 

“What?” Oikawa perks back up. “A hedgewitch?”

Matsukawa scowls, something in his stomach bubbling at the thought. “Is that what he calls himself?”

Oikawa squints. “Do you even know what it means?”

Matsukawa frowns. “Do _you?_ ” 

“He can communicate with spirits,” Oikawa answers primly. “But he practices other stuff too, divination and herbalism—his tarot cards predicted Hajime’s promotion.” 

“Tarot cards,” Matsukawa parrots with no lack of skepticism. “I always knew you were dramatic, but I never realized just how gullible you are Oikawa.” 

Iwaizumi grunts, his features looking a bit more tired than usual. “You can’t just let him have it, can you?”

“All I’m saying is don’t try to rope me into that stuff,” Matsukawa explains, eyes drifting at their own volition towards the JVC posted up behind the bar playing the intro for NHK evening news. “I feel plenty connected to the spirits as it is.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” Oikawa says and he’s got that petulant tone that Matsukawa remembers from their younger days together.

“In ghosts that linger around and haunt people for revenge or whatever it is this guy supposedly wards away,” Matsukawa replies, not taking his eyes off the fuzzy black and white picture of a young newscaster, handsome but not exactly his type. 

Outside the window a gas scooter zooms by, trembling down the sidewalk with a load of paper takeout bags strapped to the back. Its wheels skid in the wet rain, spattering the window with a thousand little diamond droplets. 

Matsukawa’s eyes pull to the design they make, nebulous and shadowed, drops pooling together into something darker than the window itself. He looks away. 

“He does demons too,” Oikawa presses and the word grates like nails on a chalkboard in the small space. He’s suddenly acting as though his life depends n Matsukawa’s acceptance of his new occult fixations. “Yahaba had a gaki in his kitchen cupboard and all it took was one visit from—”

“Oh look, the next round’s here,” Matsukawa grumbles thankfully just as the waitress comes by with three fresh, ice-cold drinks. 

“Alright fine,” Oikawa huffs. “I won’t bother you about it any longer, but honestly Mattsun I thought you of all people would be more open minded.”

But Matsukawa is smart enough not to rise to the intended bait, granting Oikawa a vacant smile instead. “Are you pigeon holing me again?”

—————  ❦ —————

The first time it happens Matsukawa is still working down in the little office tucked in back of the parlor’s foyer. He has memories here, vivid ones, of musty ledgers and catalogues, the thick scent of black coffee and his father’s shined leather shoes beneath the wide mahogany desk. 

Now he sits alone, his own shoes far less patent-gloss, with a crisp new ledger and an olive green rotary phone to replace the original, outdated one. In the corner sits a leafy philodendron, trailing to the floor, fuller than when he was a child and the thing barely grew. A lone spider weaves a delicate, lacy web on the largest vine with no care for Matsukawa’s quiet company. 

The first time it happens—

The phone rings, a shrill _bring-bringing_ that nearly startles Matsukawa right out of his stupor. His eyes had been roving the page in front of him, the typed words growing wobbly as he read the same words over and over again. A contract full of real estate jargon he was still contemplating whether or not to actually sign. 

“Hello,” he says when he picks up the phone. 

Matsukawa stares, hears nothing more than the dial tone, as though there’d never been an incoming call at all. His mind must be playing tricks on him again—sleep had evaded him the night prior and perhaps the night before too, he can’t quite remember.

He can hear Oikawa’s voice in the back of his head, a broken record player, telling him all about home remedies and blowing incense smoke where he oughtn’t be. Matsukawa really never thought Oikawa could be so superstitious— 

The phone rings again. Only, the handset is still resting in the slack grip of Matsukawa’s fist so—it can’t be the phone. The ringing turns foggy, distorted and Matsukawa breathes in, focusses his gaze over to the bookshelf and then to the door. 

He stands, walks. The ringing stops, not cut off abruptly or faded out—rather more like it hadn’t started in the first place. Matsukawa blinks. The clock on the wall ticks with exaggerated loudness. 

Movement catches in Matsukawa’s peripheral; the little resident spider has caught a gnat for dinner, its web vibrating with gluttonous anticipation. 

Matsukawa moves to the door. It’s nearly nine o’clock; he hadn’t meant to stay working quite so long, but his body doesn’t feel ready for sleep anyhow so a late meal and a nightcap will do just fine, he thinks. 

The light clicks when he flicks the switch, pulling the office door shut behind him to lock it, mechanisms tumbling around the key so loud it nearly rattles inside of Matsukawa’s skull. 

The parlor isn’t always this quiet late at night, but—

The sound rings out again, only this time Matsukawa knows it’s not a telephone. Or if it is, not one from this decade at least. His ears feel water logged or else maybe that’s just the frequency—he walks into the foyer, taking easy steps towards the lounge thinking perhaps someone had left a radio on or something behind in one of the cabinets there.

The maroon carpet is padded and plush beneath his wingtips, the glow of amber lights from lacy wall sconces lighting the way towards the back hall that holds doors to all sorts of rooms. The main chapel in the middle, the selection room and storage closets to the left with the lounge and floral to the right. 

He grips the lounge’s brass knob only to flinch back, pads of his fingers aching with the sensation of heat and scalding metal. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Matsukawa breathes to himself, turning his hand over to inspect the redness of his palm. Only his flesh is smooth and unblemished, any bit of burn left something like a phantom sensation crawling underneath his skin. 

Matsukawa closes his fingers, curling them up into a fist. His eyes rove back to the door handle; there’s nothing odd looking about it, the metal isn’t glowing nor rough in any way. 

The ring sounds again, this time a hollow echo that flows through Matsukawa’s skull, into his right ear and straight out the left. 

His breath catches in his throat, a tremor rushing through his limbs and his brows furrow. His mind really must be playing with him now, brain twisted and muddled and fuzzy with lack of sleep. 

Matsukawa reaches forward again, this time with a bit more caution, though it doesn’t seem necessary considering the handle twists easily in his grip, the metal cool and smooth against his palm. Inside the lights are off, nothing more than a dull purple shadow sneaking in through the cracks in the blinds over the far window. He searches along the wall for the light switch, flicking it up to bathe the comfortable little room in amber to match the hallway. 

The room isn’t anything fancy, a round table and chairs and a couple of brown velvet couches pushed in the corner. There’s a transistor set up in the middle of the table, but it’s since been turned off, antenna tucked away. 

Something pushes him into the room.

Matsukawa stumbles forward with a startled sound. He whips around, eyes on the doorway, expecting to see one of his coworkers there with a good natured smirk or maybe even Iwaizumi come to pay him a late night visit after his shift at the hospital. 

But the threshold is empty, nothing but plush red carpet and golden glow halogen lighting. 

Matsukawa swallows down a single note of panic, ignores the sweat beading at the nape of his neck, and turns back to the table. He makes his way over quickly, picking up the radio and rattling it around, flicking the knobs only to realize the thing won’t even turn on. Out of batteries, he realizes, and when he turns the device over he finds the rectangular compartment empty save for two little coils. 

He sets the radio back down, gazing around the room with vision that feels laggy and strained as though his eyes are moving on their own from inside of his head. It’s not as though this is the first time Matsukawa’s found himself alone at the parlor after general business hours, but—

This time when the ringing comes, it slices into him far louder than before. Matsukawa’s first instinct is to reach up and cover his ears, eyes wide as he watches the transistor radio vibrate right across the table, tipping over to slip off the other side. It thumps onto the carpet and upon impact the ringing cuts off with some sort of final gurgling groan.

Matsukawa’s feet are rooted to the floor, staring aghast as his mind tries to catch up to the present. 

Vision once again—foggy. Once again—distorted. 

There’s a shadow against the window, dipping through the moonlit cracks of dusty wood blinds. 

Matsukawa turns on his heel— _not_ because his heart is pounding, _not_ because his flesh feels twitchy enough to peel off at the bone. He turns on his heel, flicks the light switch, closes the door behind him. He doesn’t look back.

That night, in his little one bedroom apartment up the iron staircase out the back of the parlor’s meager garden, Matsukawa still does not sleep.

—————  ❦ —————

As with anything related to death, there is a stigma here.

Matsukawa has been a mortal presence at the parlor since he was fairly young. His mother took care of the house, while his father dressed the dead. Just as his father had done before him. 

When Matsukawa’s grandfather passed, his father bathed the body for the final rites. 

When his father passed last year—

The parlor had been left in his name. 

Matsukawa doesn’t mind the stigma. 

But sometimes, he wonders—is this really all that there is left for him? It’s the family business, but there’s no one left besides himself alone. Himself and the building with its creaking floorboards and musty wallpaper and the patchouli to cover the more _lingering_ scents.

He enjoys his work, really. Couldn’t possibly give the place up. 

Couldn’t _possibly_ —

—————  ❦ —————

“Don’t be mad, but I invited someone to join us.”

These—the words dripped from Oikawa’s twitching lips approximately fifteen seconds before the door next to their regular booth opens to reveal a new face, someone Matsukawa has never seen before. 

It’s likely he’ll never see anyone quite like him ever again, too. 

The stranger is a young man, late twenties perhaps, around the same age as Matsukawa—but that’s where the similarities end. His hair is longish, long enough to be swept off his forehead in a feathered manner and the strangest hue of pinkish-blond Matsukawa’s ever seen. He’s wearing a pair of tight flared trousers, emerald green, belted around his narrow waist with sleek leather and a gold designer buckle. The shirt is simple, white with a wide collar and unbuttoned just enough to reveal a flash of creamy collarbones. 

But it’s not just the clothes, or the hair—or the copious amounts of silvery rings and chains and dangled pendants adorning his fingers, neck, and ears. It’s the air that rushes in through the door behind him, a warm glow caressing his every curve as the man walks forward, heels of his ankle boots clicking with every step. 

It’s the smirk that plays at his full lips when he spots their table, when he spots Matsukawa himself—caught _staring_. 

Matsukawa doesn’t believe in things like _auras_ —but if anyone were to have one, it’s without a doubt this man coming to stand before him, hip cocked as he leans against their meager little table with the confidence of someone that knows perhaps more than he aught to. 

Matsukawa swallows, the sound audible, when he realizes the stranger is still watching him, studying him like a spider might study something wriggling around in their sticky, lacy web. 

He doesn’t look like a witch exactly—but there’s certainly something about him, something radiating off of him in waves. 

“Makki,” Oikawa says eagerly. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Ah, how could I say no to someone like you,” Makki replies smoothly and there’s just enough subtlety there that Matsukawa thinks only he can read the underlying jab tucked beneath his silky tone. “And Hajime too—and oh, don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Grey eyes just this side of silver bore into Matsukawa’s own, lids low and lashes long. Matsukawa’s lungs contract, breath caught wetly inside of his ribcage. 

“This is Mattsun,” Oikawa says, entirely oblivious to whatever underlying heat’s being shared between the two not-quite strangers.

“Matsukawa Issei,” Matsukawa offers on instinct, the words plucked from his lips by the soft smirk perched on Makki’s own. 

“Hanamaki Takahiro,” comes the matching reply, smooth and gelatinous as warm amber honey. “ _Issei_ —you seem familiar.”

The way his name sounds coming from the velvet lining of Hanamaki’s throat threatens a shiver through Matsukawa’s bones. “Oh?” he mumbles out, unsure and off-kilter. 

“Mm,” Hanamaki hums with a nod. He scoots into the booth then, right next to Matsukawa. “Maybe we’ve met before somewhere—or maybe, in a dream perhaps?” 

Matsukawa’s not entirely sure if he’s being serious or playing at some kind of schmoozey, cheesy flirtation. Either way, the new proximity isn’t doing anything to help Matsukawa’s brain to mouth filter—which is to say, he can’t seem to think of any response at all, filtering all but obsolete. 

“Mattsun works at a funeral parlor in Sumida,” Oikawa offers in a cheery voice, ignoring Iwaizumi’s raised brow and pointed look beside him. Matsukawa’s grateful for the effort even if they both know it won’t do much of anything at all. 

“Oh, I think I know the one,” Hanamaki says, eyes alight. “Next to the park—Lawson on the corner?”

Matsukawa imagines the convenience store’s dull neon sign, the taste of UCC coffee and all the onigiri he’s had on lunch breaks. “Uh—yeah,” he nods, only halfway of his own volition. 

“Well then,” Hanamaki hums, turning to Oikawa with a conspiring look. “I think you’re right Tooru—he is just my type.”

Across from him, Iwaizumi chokes on a sip of foamy beer while Matsukawa’s entire gut drops abruptly through the floor. “I—uh,” Matsukawa manages to stumble out before he’s able to wrangle his tongue into attempting a change of subject. “What is it that you do, Hanamaki-san?”

It’s not the question Matsukawa had meant to ask, not in the slightest. This might change the subject, but it probably wasn’t leading into anything much better. 

“That’s cute, but you can call me Takahiro,” Hanamaki says and it’s all but a purr, not doing much for Matsukawa’s palpitating heart. “I dabble in many things, got my fingers in a few different pies you might say. The occult mostly.” 

“The occult,” Matsukawa hears himself say, a stunned parrot. 

“Yes.” Hanamaki leans forward into Matsukawa’s space then, crooking a finger against the collar of his shirt to stage whisper, “I was under the impression that Tooru already told you that though.”

Matsukawa thinks, in the foggy depths of his skull, that while Oikawa had indeed told him such a thing, he seems to have left out just a few _minor_ details. Namely, Hanamaki’s entire personality—which seems as though aught to come with some kind of disclaimer. 

“It came up,” Matsukawa says around a dry tongue. “Only briefly.”

Hanamaki quirks a perfectly manicured brow. “Only briefly,” he repeats, swirling the words around his mouth like a fine sip of wine. “But—you do know about me then, Issei?”

The way he speaks—it’s more than a little disarming. Hanamaki’s leaning in still, talking as though they’re sharing some sort of intimate, flirtatious conversation when, in reality, there’s two sets of curious eyes ogling the situation without much hesitation. Matsukawa’s not sure how he should feel about that, unsure if he’d welcome the assistance or if Oikawa and his better half might just make things worse. 

“I uh—I know about you,” Matsukawa concedes when he realizes there’s really no other answer available to him. The undercurrent of that acknowledgment isn’t lost in the tension slowly knitting between them. 

“And it doesn’t bother you?” Hanamaki wonders, all hush-hush as though sharing something delicate and volatile.“Me being a witch and all.”

The word _witch_ hangs in the air, clinging to the humid scent of fry-oil and sticky spilt beer. 

Matsukawa swallows down his uncertainty, his alarm in the face of someone so unreadable like Hanamaki, and allows himself to latch onto the only thing he can manage to find a firm grasp on. 

“No, it doesn’t bother me,” he replies evenly. “I guess—because I don’t really believe in those sorts of things”

That seems to finally stall Hanamaki, at least for a second or two while he processes just what’s been said to him. Matsukawa takes the opportunity to study him further, eyeing the shimmering trinkets that rest in layers at the hollow of the man’s neck, the way his fingers hover over the tabletop not quite touching, his shoulders quivering with the most infinitesimal hint at laughter. 

“Oh no?” Hanamaki smirks and it’s far more indulgent and dangerous than Matsukawa had prepared for. “Those sorts of things? What’s that mean, hm?”

The sound is a warm, velvet note in the back of his throat. But despite the purr, Matsukawa is certain he can see the twitch of the man’s expression, the warning of very possible attack, claws protracted and sharp. 

Matsukawa shrugs, trying to fly a bit further under the radar. “You know,” he mummers. “Witchcraft, hauntings—those are the sort of things you deal with aren’t they?”

He’d not intended to start something, he just meant to explain his position on the matter, but the glint in Hanamaki’s eye is just a little too charged for Matsukawa’s nerves not to catch. 

“Like I said—I dabble in many places,” Hanamaki explains, tone pitched even lower than before. “On this plane, among others.” 

Across from them, Iwaizumi makes some kind of noise half cut off by Oikawa’s very sharp elbow in his side. Matsukawa’s not sure exactly what they’d thought was going to play out here, but he can honestly say that Oikawa’s matchmaking skills are absolute _shit_. 

“Uh-huh,” Matsukawa nods, turning a little more in his seat to face Hanamaki better. “Look, I didn’t mean to come off rude. You can believe what you want, make a living how you want—it’s just not something I buy into.”

Hanamaki stares at him, really scrutinizes him, for long enough that Matsukawa’s certain he can feel the sensation literally crawling underneath layers of skin and sinew. Then abruptly he turns his neck, whiplash quick and—

“He’s really an undertaker?” Hanamaki asks, directing the question pointedly at Oikawa. “Deals with the dead—not just some front office man?”

Oikawa startles so hard Matsukawa can see the shiver run down his neck. “Oh, well—”

“I do work with the deceased,” Matsukawa interjects with a snap of his teeth. He’s right there after all, and whatever game Hanamaki is playing at—it’s doing nothing to make Matsukawa like him any more. “I have for a long time—it’s the family business.”

He knows it’s silly, but somehow Matsukawa can’t help feeling offended. Especially with the lax way Hanamaki’s gaze glides back to his, very nearly amused. 

“Family business,” he drawls. “And you don’t believe in hauntings, spirits, ghosts—all that?”

Matsukawa’s fingers curl, his stomach clenching with the unapologetic way Hanamaki stares him down. “Spirituality and the after life is different than haunted houses and vengeful ghosts.,” he spits out.

He _doesn’t_ think about the shrieking trill of a phone well past midnight. 

He _can’t_ think about it—not now. 

“You’re right, it is different,” Hanamaki agrees rather easily. “In some ways—but hand-in-hand in others. I take it you’ve never had a vengeful or lost spirit at your parlor then? Or more accurately, you have, but you’ve never been the one to deal with its presence.” 

Across the table, Iwaizumi’s sitting painfully straight in his seat and Oikawa’s starting to look panicked. “I’m sure Mattsun doesn’t want to talk about work—”

“ _You’re_ the one that brought it up,” Matsukawa cuts him off, voice neutral but sharp tone clear enough before he turns back to Hanamaki. “I think we may just have to agree to disagree on this one.” 

There’s a beat then where nobody says a word, perhaps not even a breath spilled between them. Hanamaki stares him down, head angled in such a way that the lantern overhead splays a wallpaper pattern of shadows and amber light over his soft hair, his skin, his web-thick copper lashes dipping low over piercing eyes. 

“I see,” Hanamaki nods and like a flame snuffed out, when he turns away, the tension is released. “Well, all that doesn’t really change my mind about you—still _definitely_ my type.”

As he glances down at the tabletop, at the lacquer shine dotted with little condensation constellations, Hanamaki’s got a plush smile on his lips—one that Matsukawa absolutely has no way of being able to read. 

_Still definitely my type._

In some bizarre turn of events, Matsukawa kind of can’t help but to feel curious about that.

—————  ❦ —————

It’s grey hazy dark, like that of mid-winter evenings only it’s barely nine in the morning. 

The second time it happens, the rain pours down in sheets, the clouds overhead so black the whole parlor is swallowed up by gashes of shadow and slivers of lamplight meant to be comforting but far too artificial to be so. 

There’s a viewing in the main chapel today, small and understated. Nothing too steeped in religion, no more than a family sent to perform the final rites. The body had been tended early that morning before the clouds had rolled through; a grandfather gone off in his sleep, at once both peaceful and mortally disquieting. A golden urn sits off to the side, paid-in-full, ready and waiting. 

Matsukawa’s thumb plays at the second button of his suit jacket, eyes staring out at the blur of rainwater sloshing down the front window panes. The quiet is deafening, the chapel doors behind him closed, heavy and mahogany. 

Over his forehead a dark curl falls into place, nearly long enough to brush against his thick brow. Probably in need of a haircut, he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to ring for an appointment. He stares at the wayward wave from his upper peripheral, a black smudged shadow not unlike the other smudged shadows his eyes have been tracking—the ones that creep along the baseboards, behind the lacy pleated drapes, escaping into the darkness of a closet’s half-open door. 

Across the street, a little sign blinks reddish-pink neon through the dreary wet, calling out to the foot-traffic, signifying the takeout counter’s hours of operation. Matsukawa’s stomach clenches, reminding him he’d eaten nothing since the previous evening. 

Behind him the sound of footsteps padding over the soft carpet calls his attention, but when he turns there’s no one there to greet or offer condolences to. Matsukawa breathes in deeply, the scent of lilies so strong it leaches straight through the closed chapel doors, cloying in the humid air. He oughtn’t feel so calm, Matsukawa thinks, and yet—

His eye picks up on something, something a little more pronounced than the vague bits of shadows crawling up the wallpaper. Down the hall there’s a lamp lit, orange light spilling into the dim. The ceiling looks lower somehow, the walls more and more encroaching the longer Matsukawa stares down the corridor, as though the door at the end of the hall is no more than a tiny narrow cupboard his own broad shoulders would never fit through. 

He’s never seen that door before. 

The light flickers for a moment, not even a blink, and Matsukawa swears he can see something, the faintest outline of a figure. It’s made from the carpet, the wallpaper, the dull brass doorknobs—the silvery dust floating along the air in puffs of invisible, imaginary breath. 

A crackling roll of thunder jolts Matsukawa back into his own body, eyes wide as he flings himself back around towards the window only to realize he’s practically backed himself up along the chapel doors. 

He blinks, staring out the window. The rain has lessened, but still drips from the eaves and mists over the red spider lilies lining the front walk. Matsukawa squints, a dull throb starting up right at the center of his skull. 

Outside the front window, across the street—a figure. 

The takeout sign still buzzes with its reddish-pink glow—only now it illuminates the person stood perfectly in front of it, neon light floating around a hooded head like an other-worldly halo. 

Hanamaki Takahiro—there, standing across the street, staring straight into the window like he can see every last twitch of Matsukawa’s trembling hands. 

The door opens behind him, jolting Matsukawa forward and nearly tripping over his own feet. 

“Sorry, uh—” Sasaki whispers. He’s one of the newer hires, still a little bit wet behind the ears. “Matsukawa-san, are you the one making all those noises out here?”

Matsukawa blinks, trying to give nothing away as he inclines his head towards the smaller man. “Noises?” he whispers back.

Sasaki lets the door close softly behind him, joining Matsukawa fully in the lobby. “Like— _grating_ , against the walls?”

Matsukawa’s spine feels brittle, his muscles stiff as his eyes twitch in place, struggling not to glance back down the corridor to their right. 

“No,” he answers, then immediately biting his tongue. “I mean—yes, apologies. I was just checking on something. I didn’t disturb the rites, did I?”

Sasaki watches him for a moment, a bit blankly but also edging towards potential suspicion. He’s fidgeting with the ascot tied around his neck, staring but not too openly. Matsukawa had thought his facial expression was under control, but perhaps the hint of nervous moisture beading at his temples is giving him away.

He wonders, if Sasaki were to glance out the front window, if he’d see nothing but empty pavement and quivering neon across the street. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Sasaki shrugs. “It’s almost through, so should I—”

A knock at the door. Not just one or two, but a flurry of knocks that pound into Matsukawa’s mind, a rhythmic pattern he can’t quite decipher. Or—maybe he can, actually. 

The rapid beat of his heart behind his ribcage, pounded out by a rap of knuckles on dark-stained wood. 

Matsukawa flicks his gaze to the door, then back to Sasaki, who in turn seems to be observing him with more curiosity than strictly necessary. “Ah, excuse me,” Matsukawa says.

Sasaki nods, a little trembling bob. “I’ll just check on the chamber,” he decides and then he’s off, down the opposite hall than the one still blocked from Matsukawa’s vision. 

In a stilted manner, Matsukawa turns back towards the door. 

The brass handle, curved and sculpted with little flowers engraved into the rectangular plate, glares menacingly back at him through the lowlight gloom. Even though Matsukawa couldn’t possibly know who it is on the other side of that door—somehow, he just _does_. 

The door opens with a clichéd squeaking stick to the hinges, pulling back to reveal a lean form wrapped in a waxy brown rain-trench. There’s no bit of wet clinging to the man’s slick wingtips all the way up to feathery strawberry locks, dry and soft and inviting looking as the first time. 

“So we meet again,” Hanamaki says, lips plump around a mischievous smirk. 

Matsukawa knows, in the corner of his brain trained rigidly in business and hospitality, that he should invite this visitor in. But, at the same time—every single bone in his body is alight with something cautious, warning; something— _not_ _quite right_. 

“I’m—” Matsukawa starts, hesitates on finding just the right words. “At work.”

So, perhaps not exactly what he was going for, but these words were nothing to be argued with. He feels tongue-tied and stupid and the endeared sort of amusement on Hanamaki’s face certainly isn’t helping.

“Honestly, I didn’t come by specifically for you,” Hanamaki says and Matsukawa vehemently denies the bit of sting at that. “I was in the area.”

Matsukawa swallows down the unreasonable amount of moisture that’s welled up on his tongue. Behind Hanamaki, down the front step, the spider lilies seem to curl and turn in towards him; stop animation slow-motion that Matsukawa resolutely decides to blame on the tricks his eyes have taken to playing lately.

“Oh?” Matsukawa tilts his head, going for some form of on-brand snark. His chest is starting to feel a little less tight, but there’s still a peculiar lingering sense; a slow decay of his thoracic cage. “Business or pleasure?”

“Why not both?” Hanamaki meets him toe-to-toe, grin pulling wider as he looks directly into Matsukawa’s eyes, no hesitation. “Business mostly—d’you know Tanaka-san across the way? Sweetest lady and the soba is absolutely to _die_ for.”

Matsukawa feels something brush at his ankle, sensation snaking up his leg slowly, slowly—fingers and flesh and bone. When he looks down, flicking his eyes out of Hanamaki’s grasp, there is nothing there but the dark pressed fabric of his slacks. 

“If you aren’t here to speak with me,” Matsukawa says, the words feeling arduous on his suddenly weighted tongue. He glances back up just in time to catch Hanamaki’s intrigued stare. “Then why is it that you’re here exactly?”

“Like I said—business.” Hanamaki shifts his weight from one leg to the other, drawing Matsukawa’s attention to the long line of them in a pair of double-knit pants, patterned in mustard yellow diamond-check. “Got some calls in from a couple of the store owners around here—strange noises, shadows, all that. The usual—y’know, all that stuff you said you don’t believe in?” 

“I got it, yeah,” Matsukawa nods, biting back unbridled annoyance.“Still doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

His palm still grips the edge of the door, the wood smooth and humid beneath his clenched fingers. The rain seems to have come to a full-stop now, but the moisture lingers, clinging in around them and curling up the strands of pink around Hanamaki’s neck and forehead. 

“Why _here_ , specifically?” Hanamaki asks, eyes rolling up as though in deep compelling thought, before they fall back to center, sharper and clearer than ever before. “Where else better to start the investigation?”

Matsukawa’s brows twitch. “Are you a witch or a PI?”

There’s that word again—sticky floral honey on his tongue. _Witch_. What was it Oikawa had said? _Hedgewitch_. Shamanism, herbalism, his mind supplies, but also—

But also more specifically— _death_. 

“Ah, hard to tell some times,” Hanamaki answers as though he’s really giving it some hard thought. “Have to do proper assessments, look into things fully, that’s the safest way of handling these sorts of things. Wouldn’t want to confuse a vengeful ghost with an earth-bound spirit, after all. I’m sure you can at least understand that much.”

The words are barbed, but the tone rather neutral and when Matsukawa takes to studying Hanamaki’s features more fully, he thinks he might see just a hint of defensiveness hidden behind all that exaggerated mystifying charm. 

“It’s not that I don’t understand—” Matsukawa starts but when that defensive look only blooms fuller, he abruptly changes tactics. “Look, there’s been nothing strange going on around here, so an investigation won’t be necessary.” 

Hanamaki’s shoulder dips as he leans to the side, the leather satchel slung across his chest shifting with a few odd clinks and clacks as he pointedly makes to peek around Matsukawa, eyes shifting over the parlor’s still empty lobby. 

“Oh no? So, that hitodama in the corner there—it's just your usual hovering posse of fireflies then?” 

The wheels turning in Matsukawa’s mind jolt as the gears screech to an abrupt halt. “What?” 

Hanamaki waggles his eyebrows a little, standing back up to his full height only a few centimeters less than Matsukawa’s own. “You’re kind of blocking the exit, Issei—don’t you have any manners?” 

Something hot and heavy and uncertain sinks to the floor of Matsukawa’s stomach. He stares at Hanamaki, unable to control the way his jaw goes obviously slack. “ _What?_ ” he asks again, feeling utterly helplessly dumb all of a sudden.

But, for what it’s worth, Hanamaki doesn’t seem to find this anything other than endearing if the soft smile that wraps his features is anything to go by. “You’ve got a spirit behind you, looking for a little bit of breathing room. They’ve just finished up the rites, I’d say.” 

Before Matsukawa can begin to ask how Hanamaki even knows there’s a viewing taking place in the closed off, private chapel, there’s a set of long fingers gripping gently around Matsukawa’s wrist and tugging. His feet take a second to activate, so Matsukawa’s left practically stumbling over the threshold and into Hanamaki’s broad chest by the time the man is done maneuvering him. 

“C’mon out,” he calls and for a split second Matsukawa thinks he’s talking to him, but when a rush of warm, static air brushes past them through the doorway, things abruptly click into place. 

Matsukawa blinks through the haze of shock and heat from his close proximity to the near-stranger that Hanamaki still is—there, darting about like some bioluminescent hummingbird, a nebulous orb of bluish light wisps out over the pavement. It hovers, a drop of preternatural electricity in his mind’s eye, before flickering out of sight leaving a gaping hole in what little tatters are left of Matsukawa’s current sanity. 

They stand there for a moment, Matsukawa’s heart beating so loud in his ears that he at first doesn’t even register that he’s started to speak. “The rainwater—reflections,” he says, a nonsensical stuttering explanation that’s trying desperately to claw its way up from the empty bowl of his blanked out mind. Hitodama, they’re fiction. That’s all—just fiction.

“Hallucinations, phosphorus, shooting stars—I’ve heard it _all_ ,” Hanamaki drones on, voice an easy velvet melody in the way it slithers into Matsukawa’s ears. “Why, just last month a professor at Meiji released a report of an experiment using methane gas. Can you believe it—using combustible gas to create an artificial hitodama? For what reason— _science?_ ” 

“You don’t—you don’t believe in science,” Matsukawa says even if it perhaps aught to be a question. But he still feels fuzzy around the edges, staring out at the now empty gray-lit air, like a distorted black and white photograph. 

“Oh, sure I do.” Hanamaki shrugs and his satchel clinks again, a peppering of other odd rustling sounds following suit. “But it’s never good to cross wires like that. I don’t believe in science used as an explanation—no, more like an _excuse_ for every last little thing.”

“Uh-huh,” Matsukawa nods, still feeling utterly blank. Yet somehow that explanation doesn’t seem quite so incomprehensible, at least not when it comes from someone like Hanamaki. 

He turns then, finally tearing his eyes back to find Hanamaki’s gaze has shifted to the open doorway, over the honey-wood threshold and dark carpet, to the heavy credenza set up on the right hand side. It’s layered in lace-knit doilies and stumpy melted candles and a dusty incense burner probably not used since the decade prior. 

There are blood-red handprints climbing up the walnut veneer.

Matsukawa’s mind curls in on itself, the way his fists do simultaneously at his sides. Against every fiber of his being he turns back to Hanamaki; their eyes catch.

Neither says a word.

When Matsukawa looks away first, looks back through the open door, there’s nothing but the phantom iron-tang of blood left behind on the air. 

“Those things are quite common by the way; hitodama. Especially in a funeral parlor. They’re relatively harmless compared to some _other_ lurking things,” Hanamaki says and it’s almost as though nothing’s happened at all. Almost. “Speaking of—I can offer you the friends and family discount if you so choose—”

Matsukawa’s gaze blurs. “We’re not friends or family.”

“Well—perhaps not yet anyways.”

Matsukawa glances over just in time to catch the little pout of Hanamaki’s full lips, the slightly petulant look on his soft, pretty features as he studies the creaky brass hinges on the parlor’s heavy front door. “Look, I’ve got a busy day. A cremation imminently and a consultation after lunch—”

Hanamaki shrugs, tapping the toe of his shoe against the stoop—it’s grown so quiet between them, not even the sound of pedestrians or cars passing by on the street, that the tapping nearly sounds like the staccato of gunshots to Matsukawa’s sensitive ears. “I’ve got time, I don’t mind waiting,” Hanamaki mutters.

Matsukawa sucks in a breath, gnashing his teeth to swallow down the bit of frustration trying to worm its way up through silty layers of anxiety and denial. “Waiting for what exactly? I already said we don’t need your— _particular expertise_.” 

“You flatter me,” Hanamaki says and tips his head to the side, coy and observant. “But your flirting could use a bit more work.”

“Flirting?” Matsukawa sputters. “What—what is with you? You’re so—”

Hanamaki grins, primordial dark. “Charming? Handsome?”

Somewhere past the foyer, down the hall, a phone rings—a trill that pierces like a faint, spectral cry. Matsukawa’s mind flickers static white to syrupy red, the sensation of hands at his back, the tingling chill of being physically alone but metaphorically _watched_ — 

“Weird, for starters,” Matsukawa answers bluntly, voice amazingly even and curt. “But also—very forward.”

“That’s not half as bad as I’ve heard before,” Hanamaki considers, cheeks round and tongue peeking through the bow of his lips as he takes one more too-obvious glance inside. “Issei—you’re certain there’s been nothing going on around here? Nothing that sets your teeth on edge, makes your mind draw up blank, your eyes catch on shadows or shimmers that shouldn’t be there?”

Matsukawa’s throat aches, a tremble of his vocal cords fighting against every thought of resistance— “ _No_ ,” he grunts, firm and final.

The rain has started to pick up again, nothing more than a light foggy mist. Matsukawa’s own curls soak in the bone-chilling humidity, but Hanamaki’s hair is still perfectly coifed off his forehead, feathery and glowing pink like candy floss through the autumn doldrums. He’s objectively attractive, in a bewitching sort of manner, and Matsukawa absolutely _cannot_ be allowed to enjoy the irony in that rather startling thought.

It’s funny really, how Hanamaki keeps harping on types and not at all attempting to downplay his obvious flirtations—it’s funny, only because in any other circumstance Matsukawa wouldn’t hesitate to reciprocate, even jump on a chance to ask someone of Hanamaki’s certain _caliber_ out. 

It’s funny, Matsukawa thinks, with some sad, nauseous pit rocking his insides. 

“Wow, you really _are_ a skeptic,” Hanamaki says but he still doesn’t exactly sound put-off, even annoyed. “Can’t exactly wrap my head around that—you working _here_ and all.” 

It’s at that moment that the chapel doors open, revealing a straight-faced older woman followed by two younger men. One of Matsukawa’s other associates, gently guides them down the hallway with the calm disposition required of any employee of a workplace such as this. Not a single eye looks up to catch the two men still standing in the open doorway, nor the extra blip of a shadow along the wall behind them, blending and melding in amongst the wallpaper. 

Matsukawa runs his tongue along an incisor, thinking about the gratifying sensation of biting down. “I don’t discount anyone’s superstitions or beliefs—especially not those of our customers,” he explains, like he’s reading a passage out of an HR handbook. The shadow fizzles out in his peripheral, melting into the shag carpeting. “I don’t let my own personal beliefs interfere with my work.”

Hanamaki regards him quietly. The deeply repressed part of Matsukawa wishes he could ask if he can see them too; the shadows, the sticky-tang handprints, the tremors in the whites of Matsukawa’s eyes. 

But, for now, he’ll breathe through the hallucinations and remind himself to fall asleep earlier than during the empty, cold hours of pre-dawn. 

“Let’s see here,” Hanamaki starts, slow like he’s swirling the words over his tongue. His eyes are like knives against all of Matsukawa’s paper defenses. “Ah, that makes sense—what was it then? Baku under your bed when you were a kid? Broom spirit? Yuki-onna, maybe?”

Matsukawa can’t help it, he can’t think of any reasonable response other than fixing Hanamaki with a wide-eyed stare. Fiction, that was all just _fiction_ —

Hanamaki purses his lips sheepishly. “Okay, maybe that last one’s a bit much,” he says, as though that’s the one and only reason for Matsukawa’s tongue-tied silence. “Not sure you’d still be around if you crossed paths with a particularly scornful yuki-onna.”

“Folklore,” Matsukawa chokes out. “I was raised on it, but only as _stories_.” 

“Okay, see now we’re getting somewhere. For a second I was starting to think you’d never even _heard_ of the kinds of shit I deal with on the daily—”

“I—I think you should probably go now,” Matsukawa interrupts, a rather last ditch effort at corralling the remnants of his sanity. “I have to get back to work.”

Matsukawa stands so stiffly his muscles absolutely ache from it, his eyes feel itchy and dry and his mouth not much better. There’s a creeping, ticklish sensation in the hollow of his ears, as though someone’s shoved cotton batting all the way to the drum or he’s been submerged under the suffocating pull of quicksand. 

“Ah, of course. How rude of me—next time I ramble just tell me to shut up, promise I won’t take it personally,” Hanamaki says far too agreeably. He’s smiling, really something genuine and sweet, and if not for Matsukawa’s sudden affliction, he would even find it very much attractive.

“Here though, before I go—” Hanamaki tacks on, shuffling to dig into the depths of his satchel. The rings laced on his fingers click metallically against each other as he searches for something one-handed—a triumphant sound curling from within his throat when he pulls out a small bit of worn looking paper. 

Matsukawa’s eyes blur as he zeroes in on it, a slice of irrational anxiety cutting through him as he momentarily conjures up ideas of what exactly it is that someone like _Hanamaki_ would be trying to give to someone like _him_. 

But there, clutched between Hanamaki’s thumb and forefinger, is nothing but an innocuous little card—rectangular in shape, distressed around the edges, a shimmering shade of lilac parchment with words clearly jotted by a typewriter in a few uneven rows. 

A business card. 

“That’s my number there. I’m usually available most hours of the day, but as you can see I do make house calls by appointment.” Hanamaki smiles, the freckles dotting his cheeks and nose fluttering with the movement.

“Thank you,” Matsukawa murmurs, because he doesn’t really know what else to say at all. 

He takes the card, careful not to brush his fingers against Hanamaki’s own. There’s a second of brief hesitation, Matsukawa’s stomach knotting with the awkwardness. He hadn’t even invited Hanamaki past the threshold, offered him a seat in the lounge, a warm cup of tea on this dreary, rainy day. Of course—Hanamaki isn’t exactly a usual visitor, certainly not a client.

Just the same, Matsukawa’s gut spins a thread of guilt even as Hanamaki turns on his heel, genuinely unaffected. Matsukawa’s throat itches, clenching to dispel a cough but what comes out instead is an inelegant clear of his throat through the unbridled silence. 

“Wait—” Matsukawa calls after Hanamaki’s retreating back. “Uh why is it, exactly, that you think there’s something going on here? Something that—someone like _you_ would need to look into?”

It’s a question that’s been fermenting for a while now, finally bubbling up the surface and maybe Matsukawa aught to feel silly for asking, for even entertaining the idea after he’s been so adamant in his disbelief—

Hanamaki turns, calculating and smooth as though he’d predicted the inevitable question through the set of tarot Matsukawa’s certain he’s got floating around in that bag of his. 

Lips persimmon red, Hanamaki’s smile darkens. “Sometimes it’s just a feeling, you know?” he explains, silver starlight irises glowing beneath the steel wool sky. “Just—a _sense_.” 

Matsukawa’s lungs feel dry, withering away beneath the man’s gaze. Dead flowers in a vase on the mantle. “A sense,” he repeats, testing the word on his tongue. 

“Yeah,” Hanamaki nods; silk and satin smirk. “And even though you won’t admit to it, I think you know _exactly_ what I mean by that, Issei.” 

It may or may not be some sort of cryptic double entendre, but Matsukawa’s mind is already too full of sticky-stringy cobweb thoughts to analyze any further. 

“I’ll be sure to call, Hanamaki-san,” Matsukawa says as insincerely as he can manage, which isn’t much.

“I told you—” Hanamaki waves over his shoulder as he retreats back down the sidewalk, shoes clicking with each step. “Call me Takahiro.”

The card in his fingers practically burns, an electric spark curling into the ridges and lines and pores. When Matsukawa glances down, his vision feels distorted. There, just below the telephone string of numbers, a full lipped kiss sears into view; a smudge of pink the same shade as Hanamaki’s hair. 

In the damp soil of the garden bed the spider lilies give a flustered sigh and, a moment later, Matsukawa does too. 


	2. silhouette

The walls surrounding him are deep, deep red.

Not the red of velvet lined coffins or the stain or merlot left in the half-drunk glass ringing the coffee table veneer. 

This red is beating. This red is— _alive_. 

All around him, clinging inward, a membrane. With each breath the walls pulse. In, out, in, out, _in_ —

His lungs are filled with liquid, vicious and choking. His eyes are shut so tightly, all he can see is the veiny red skin of his lids where flesh stretches over trembling irises, pupils dilated even in the burgundy dark. 

—out, in, out, in.

He’s choking on nothing more than air now, sucking, heaving.

Matsukawa opens his eyes.

The walls are still red. 

Beating, alive. Blood red. 

And then, in front of him, a pale white figure crawling its way through the membrane, slicing with sharp nails painted shimmer-soot black. Eyes piercing through the red glow, mouth curved and plump, forehead covered by feather-soft bangs.

Familiar.

Matsukawa stares, watching as the figure, the man, slinks closer. He is both far away and within an arm’s reach all at once. Matsukawa tries to lift his hand, to beckon the man closer, but his muscles lay limp and unresponsive; mocking in his shuddering trembles.

The man moves close still. The red glow turns pink, dowsing his skin in petal shadows. His waist nips in beneath prominent ribs, over prominent hipbones. His thighs are thick with muscle, but his legs over-all are slender and cervine. Knobby knees and slim ankles, skin creamy—Matsukawa’s mouth practically waters as he imagines kissing up the jut of bone and sensitive flesh. 

The man, the figure, the being—he has no defining features, but Matsukawa knows him just the same.

It’s a feeling, he thinks, a sense.

A sense.

The beating speeds up, hyperventilation, but his lungs no longer feel drowned in his own fluids. In his own blood. 

The man, the figure, the being—

The creature crawls over him, up his legs, his prone body, planting a pleasant weight in Matsukawa’s lap. 

The walls, the membrane, they’re closing in.

Closer and closer, stealing away every last ounce of oxygen left in the room.

Until—lips on his.

—Matsukawa sucks in his last breath. 

—————  ❦ —————

It’s a Saturday and no one has passed on. 

_Correction_ —it’s a Saturday and no one has passed on in the vicinity of their working operations. It’s a far-reaching circle without spanning the entirety of Tokyo’s metropolis certainly, but still a wide amount of opportunity. Especially considering the older population nestled in around here.

It’s always strange, but not unwelcome—a quiet Saturday morning without the need of the local undertaker. 

The phone rings—Matsukawa’s landline specifically. He doesn’t get very many personal calls and few have ever been graced with knowledge of that particular number. This makes the job of narrowing the possibilities a negligible one—actually, a mostly obsolete one. Matsukawa knows who it is before the phone’s even off its hook.

“Oikawa,” he says into the receiver, cradling the yellowish plastic in the curve of his neck and shoulder. 

“ _What if it’d been someone else?_ ” Oikawa answers with a huff. His voice sounds thready and distorted through the telephone lines. “ _They’d be awfully offended._ ”

Matsukawa’s eyes drift over his meager kitchen, to the rays of peachy light filtering in through the building’s back window, catching on dust. “Not a single other soul calls before nine o’clock on a Saturday morning.” 

“ _Well, it doesn’t sound like I woke you up,_ ” Oikawa assesses in his crackly, far-off voice. He pauses then, as if in thought. “ _Have you even gone to sleep yet?_ ”

It’s probably a valid question, but Matsukawa can’t help feeling somewhat irritated by the assumption. 

“Yes,” he answers tersely. Truthful only in the sense that sleep _had_ taken place, even if the quality had been subpar. The sound of percolating water starts to thrum in the distant background. “What is it that you need?”

“ _Well, I’m just calling to talk to you about how certain things were handled yesterday,_ ” Oikawa says cryptically even if it’s not very cryptic at all.

On the counter, the ceramic teapot grows louder and louder as the water inside comes to an electric boil. Painted on its side, in vibrant blue and avocado green, an umbrella and floral design. Beneath Matsukawa’s sharp gaze the pattern wavers, petals and leaves curling with a nonexistent breeze.

“If you’re going to speak in riddles, then I’m hanging up,” Matsukawa says blankly. 

“ _Mattsun_ ,” Oikawa snaps. “ _I just don’t understand how you could be so rude to someone like Makki._ ”

_Someone like Makki._ Like _Hanamaki Takahiro_. Does Oikawa even realize what it is he’s saying? Someone like—

“Now I’m definitely hanging up,” Matsukawa says though he makes no move to slam down the receiver.

  
“ _Wait!_ ” Oikawa calls out in panic anyways and that’s at least somewhat satisfying. “ _I get that you don’t believe in the occult, but that’s not the point. Makki likes you—and you can’t tell me you aren’t a least somewhat interested in him. I know chemistry when I see it._ ”

“What you’re seeing isn’t chemistry,” Matsukawa explains, slowly as though speaking to a _very_ confused child. “It’s a chemical reaction—flourine and hydrogen.” 

“ _Then I’d say it’s—_ ”

“If you say ‘explosive’ I’m ending this friendship here and now.”

At the other end of the line, a rough sigh. “Mattsun, I wish you weren’t always so stubborn.”

“You know he’s just interested in rustling up new business,” Matsukawa says going for something less sharp and more serious now. “What better place than a funeral parlor?” 

“ _Do you really believe that?_ ”

“He knocked on the door yesterday and told me he’d been scouting the area.”

“ _House calls, Mattsun_ ,” Oikawa corrects with clear exasperation. Matsukawa can’t help picturing the little lilac business card that’s now perched beneath his bedside lamp, taunting yet safely kept. “ _He’s well known mostly through word of mouth. Trust me when I tell you he doesn’t need to bark up your tree for more business. He’s doing just fine on his own._ ” 

Matsukawa’s mind’s eye conjures up an image: Hanamaki’s lithe legs wrapped in clinging fabric, a designer belt buckle and supple leather, shimmering rings and threads of silver through his ears. 

“Either way,” Matsukawa says and the words nearly choke him on their way out. “He tried to tell me the parlor is haunted.”

A pause, then another deep breath. “ _Mattsun—even I could tell you the parlor is absolutely, one hundred percent haunted_.” 

Matsukawa shrugs; the shadow on the wall follows a beat too late. “Nothing’s ever bothered me before,” he says, earnest.

Oikawa hums, cat-like. “ _Are you implying that something’s bothering you now?_ ”

Caught in his own misstep, Matsukawa tenses. His muscles feel sore, not just from a night of tossing and turning. “Alright, I think this conversation has exceeded its expiration date.”

“ _Awfully morbid humor for someone who won’t give Makki a chance,_ ” Oikawa simpers, clearly pleased with himself. “ _He’d love that sort of joke, you know?_ ”

“It wasn’t meant as—” Matsukawa bites his tongue. “ _Goodbye_ , Oikawa.”

He thinks he hears a chirp of laughter through the receiver as he slams it back down atop the cradle. The spiral chord is hopelessly tangled and his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are bone-white.

The shadow on the wall offers no sympathy.

—————  ❦ —————

The zipper pull of the body bag is loud and jarring in Matsukawa’s ears.

Sometimes— _most_ times—a body arrives with a certain amount of suspense. Often, Matsukawa isn’t privy to the cause of death until he is faced with the undead themselves, though this factor had always just been a part of the job. The family business. 

Today—a bloody mess. 

Tonight—the shower is running, again. On the oblong coffee table sits a container of greasy noodles, half-eaten. The apartment swims in stagnant swill, claustrophobic. 

Matsukawa watches the drain, scalding liquid fogging up the tiny box of a room. The bath beside him, pretty pink porcelain. It should be white. 

He watches the drain, the swirl of hot tainted water. He isn’t sure how many times he’s bathed at this point, the seconds, the minutes, the hours all run together like the liquid red down the drain. 

He can’t get clean. 

Or maybe—he’s just never been clean to begin with.

The water starts to run clear and Matsukawa hopes this will be the last time, at least for today. 

Down the hall, in the kitchen, the radio tunes to something stringy and soft—dissonant with the addition of piano; off-key. He doesn’t remember turning the radio on.

Matsukawa pads down the hall, feet argyle-socked, shirt and slacks wrinkled beyond repair. On the table, beside his long cold supper, a stack of papers still only halfway read. Beside that, his gold fountain pen, ink splattered out on the wood veneer like still cooling blood at a crime scene. 

He eyes the forlorn pen, the shimmer of dark ink. It’s a wonder the papers have been left unscathed, especially the yellowed archival paper at the very top; a deed in his own name. 

With slow, steady movements Matsukawa paces towards the stereo. He holds a breath while he switches off the radio, lets the stagnant air loose when the haunting thrum of music actually stops. 

Outside the window the night is calm, the sky soot black; stars peek out like tiny beacons to another plane through Tokyo’s constant haze. 

On his bedside table, the lilac card practically glows through the dim. 

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Matsukawa has given it some thought. If they were really so incompatible, he doesn’t think he could possibly be feeling quite so compulsory. Hanamaki is attractive, that much is objectively true. But there’s something else, some silver-thread idea tickling at the recesses of Matsukawa’s mind—the first day they’d met, the air that had followed him, nipping at his heels.

Something—something very _different_. 

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Matsukawa thinks of Hanamaki just a bit too often to be causal coincidence. 

The dark blotch of shadow that hides behind Matsukawa’s potted Monstera in the corner twitches in his peripheral; an inkblot test flowing and ebbing against the wall, seeping into the deep shag carpet. 

_Drip._

Matsukawa moves to the couch, back to his takeout with the chopsticks stuck haphazardly into a greasy knot of noodles. For a heartbeat he expects to see reddened fingerprints along the light wood, right where his fingers match up. Instead, they’re clean of nothing other than sauce and too much garlic. 

_Drop._

He contemplates turning on his small television, wonders if the din of the news channel might do more or less to lull him into that elusive state of natural relaxation. 

_Drip._

Something taps at the nape of Matsukawa’s neck—he’s hunched over the coffee table, just enough to slurp the noodles without making an outright mess. The sensation comes again, not two beats later and out of instinct Matsukawa’s hand swipes over his exposed neck—

—and comes away with glimmering, velvet, viscous _blood_. 

The reverberation of his heart beats up into his throat, so thick he nearly chokes swallowing it back down. _Look up, look up,_ the voice inside of his head chants on and on. But it’s not his own voice, not even close. 

Despite the aching tug downwards, Matsukawa slowly tilts his head _back, back, back_. 

There, on the dingy popcorn ceiling, a water stain—only, it’s not water, it’s something much darker, much thicker, much redder. 

_Drop._

A perfect splatter trickles down, landing on the collar of Matsukawa’s shirt as he tries to flinch away.

Outside, the caw of a crow pierces in through the walls, so loud his eardrums practically shake with the noise. Matsukawa jumps, feet barely steady beneath him in time to carry him over towards the window. The night is still pitch dark.

Thump—the sound of something crashing against the window, rattling the panes and Matsukawa’s brain inside his skull. Thump, thump, thump—each time the scratching clatter of claws and beaks against glass, the screech of a caw turned animalistic moan. 

Matsukawa’s hands tremble; he can’t even lift his eyes long enough to search the patio for anything other than a flurry of shadowy feathers and the slow drip of liquid down the window glass—the same shade as the drop bleeding into the starched fabric of his shirt.

The lilac card blinks like a beacon in his peripheral and Matsukawa lunges. His pupils tremble as he tries to make out the crooked typed numbers there, lungs stuck and shriveled in his ribcage. 

His phone is across the room, the same phone he’d spoken to Oikawa through only three days prior. Matsukawa crosses over, back towards the kitchen, sight narrowing down to avoid the puddle still sopping up above, mind playing static through his ears so he doesn’t hear the dying, creaking cries outside his window. 

The shadow has moved out from the corner. It hovers by the door—perhaps to make an easy escape.

Or prevent one.

Each number clicks loud and clear through the apartment as he dials. Matsukawa’s own pulse beats so fast it nearly echoes through the walls like he’s trapped inside the membrane of his own heart.

His finger spins the last number on the rotary, the dull dial tone finally clicks, and the phone starts to ring.

The shadow watches him. It has no discernible eyes, nor shape, but Matsukawa can feel it watching just the same. It stays wedged against the wall, far out of the reach of the amber light glowing from the kitchen’s stained glass chandelier. 

Matsukawa stays firmly rooted in the light. 

“ _Hanamaki Takahiro,_ ” a low-thrum voice says through the telephone and Matsukawa flinches, nearly dropping the receiver before his mind can even register who it is that’s speaking. 

“H-hey,” he says voice cracking and sounding foreign to his own ears. His tongue feels weighed down, saliva turned gelatinous mush in his mouth. 

“ _Hello?_ ” Hanamaki says and it takes Matsukawa another few pounding beats of his heart to realize that the other man has no way of knowing who’s on the other line. 

“It’s, uh—it’s Matsukawa,” he stumbles, tongue flicking at his dry lips. “You know, Oikawa’s friend—Issei.” 

“ _Issei,_ ” Hanamaki hums and the name sounds so warm and achingly pleasant rolling off his tongue, even through the crackle of phone lines. “ _I’m glad you called. I was thinking of you._ ”

Matsukawa can’t be sure if it’s a line or the truth or some complicated mix of the two, but he doesn’t have time to stew in the purr of Hanamaki’s potential implications. “I need your help. It’s—there’s something,” he breathes. “There’s something not right here.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Hanamaki says, tone calm and even. “ _Where is here? The funeral parlor?_ ”

“Yeah—yes. But also—I live upstairs. It’s—it—“

“ _Followed you?_ ”

“I don’t know—I don’t know what to do.” 

“ _I need you to not do anything_ ,” Hanamaki replies and Matsukawa can hear some muffled rustling on the other end. “ _I’m already out the door, on my way—has anything physically touched you?_ ”

“Uh, there’s—there’s something dripping from the ceiling.” _Blood, blood, blood._ “Otherwise, nothing.” _Yet, yet, yet._

“ _Stay where you are_ ,” Hanamaki instructs. “ _Don’t—don’t agitate, I guess. If it hasn’t done something physical already, I don’t think we’re dealing with anything too outrightly malicious._ ”

“Okay.” Matsukawa nods, blinks. “The door—my door’s not open.”

“ _Don’t worry about that,_ ” Hanamaki answers. “ _Stay where you are, Issei. I’ll be right there._ ” 

Then the line clicks, the din of the dial tone a loud, clamorous echo in Matsukawa’s ear. 

When he returns the receiver to its cradle the phone clatters, knifing straight through the suffocating silence. 

The shadow watches, waits.

And so does Matsukawa.

—————  ❦ —————

On the far wall, the clock’s second hand ticks to the steady pounding beat of blood pulsing in his ears. 

It’s hard to tell exactly how much time has passed when Matsukawa’s eyes can’t bother to focus on anything more than the dizzying ochre patterns of the laminate beneath his feet. 

But then—the slight, barely there scratch of something metallic. 

The shadows engulfing the apartment have melted into each other by now, no way to discern which have eyes for their mortal captive and which are just blobs of innocuous darkness. 

There’s still the faint tang of iron clinging to the air, mixing nauseatingly with stale fry oil and waxy takeout containers. Matsukawa still stands in the kitchen, in the alien pool of amber light haloing around him like a child’s make-believe barrier. 

He feels rather like a child, in that helpless, naive sort of way. But that does nothing to negate the crushing sense of _wrong_ trying its best to wrap him up in its viscous embrace. 

The metallic sounds turn louder, a scrape and the distinct clacking tumble of a lock. 

A second later the front door swings open on its own and Matsukawa knows, deep down, that this aught to make him feel more afraid—but instead his shoulders slump and his whirring brain comes to a halt just as a familiar pair of Chelsea leather boots step over the threshold. 

“Issei,” Hanamaki breathes out and his mouth curves into a gentle smile that Matsukawa, for perhaps not the first time, wants desperately to taste. 

Just like at the izakaya, a rush of something follows Hanamaki inside, warmth licking at his heels even if the air outside is chilled with nighttime. He’s got his satchel with him, the worn brown leather clinking as it shifts against the side of his high waisted slacks. He doesn’t look quite as put together as the other two times Matsukawa’s seen him; his shirt’s a bit wrinkled, the pretty tinge of his pink hair more mussed than usual. But still, he’s as attractive and enigmatic as ever. 

Matsukawa tenses automatically when Hanamaki takes another step forward, placing himself firmly in the apartment proper. He can just barely see a lick of darkness inching away down near the baseboards; creeping like a skittish cat caught in its own mischief. 

Matsukawa blinks, flicks his gaze back to Hanamaki’s gentle and unassuming face. He’s still a little uncertain whether his mind is deliberately playing tricks on him or not. 

But maybe what they say is true—

Seeing is believing.

“Hey,” Matsukawa responds, affecting neutrality. He realizes, belatedly, what he must look like standing there in the middle of his cramped kitchenette, a bit unkept himself. 

_How embarrassing_ , a voice echoes through his head. Not his own. 

“I see,” Hanamaki nods, gaze darting around the room as though he’s taking a careful assessment. “You’ve got some company.”

Matsukawa himself can’t actually see much of anything, other than maybe a shadow, and the bits and pieces he’s sure his rattled mind has conjured up. He can’t quite bring himself to look up and check if the blood spot is still dripping from the ceiling, but—

“I uh—yeah, I guess you could say that,” he mutters out in favor of anything remotely helpful. 

His tongue always feels so tied around Hanamaki and as utterly frustrating as that is, Matsukawa can sort of understand why. Auras and all that shit he doesn’t believe in.

—didn’t believe in, _before_. 

“There’s definitely some unrest,” Hanamaki nods. “Downstairs would make sense, you know? There’s always lingering in places like that—funeral parlors, columbariums, temples, shrines.” 

“I suppose that’s what I get for living upstairs, huh?” Matsukawa huffs out a half laugh and feels a little bit of tinder light in his chest when he gets an appreciative smirk in return.

“I suppose,” Hanamaki says. “But, usually there’s a reason—hauntings don’t just happen, contrary to what the media might have you believe.”

Matsukawa nods, Hanamaki’s voice doing good work in relieving the painful pins of tension that had lodged themselves in every crevice of his body. “I’ve never been one for horror movies.”

“Didn’t figure,” Hanamaki chuckles. “I don’t mind them so much. They’re fun to cuddle up to, with the right person of course.” 

Matsukawa’s tongue burns with the urge to ask if maybe, after things are settled here, if he might be that kind of right person for Hanamaki. 

“Now,” Hanamaki says instead, cutting off Matsukawa’s imaginative thoughts. “I’m gonna need your stove.” 

The words are unexpected and the roundness to Hanamaki’s cheeks tell Matsukawa that he must have confusion written all over his face. Either way, he turns and gestures Hanamaki over to the sad little two burner stove he’s got wedged in by his minuscule refrigerator. 

Hanamaki hums a pleased sound, toeing off his boots and walking over the shadow ink carpet without much care to potentially stepping on any wayward thing that might still be lurking. His bag comes along with him, the strap practically slithering at its own volition off of Hanamaki’s shoulder when he goes to set it with a few muffled bumps and clangs atop the counter. 

“Alright, let’s see,” Hanamaki says, mostly to himself but Matsukawa appreciates the deep lull of his voice just the same. 

Matsukawa hovers, trying his best not to feel in the way but also—well, he can’t quite help it, he’s _curious_. Hanamaki’s long, willowy hand reaches into the mouth of his satchel, flicking around until he pulls free several items left to dangle from his fingers. Bundles of herbs wrapped in twine and mulberry ribbon, a few blue-green leaves, and a small glass teapot hooked onto his thumb. 

Hanamaki carefully sets the pot on the stove’s front cast-iron burner. Matsukawa watches his fingers hesitate for a moment before twitching upwards, a steady pool of water following them until the pot is nearly full. Then, with a snap of his thumb and forefinger, he lights the burner below without a second thought at touching the dial. 

Matsukawa breathes in and out. Whatever perfume Hanamaki is wearing today tickles his nose with something warm and comforting. It’s not exactly the strangest thing he’s seen as of late, so he doesn’t bother questioning it.

“You, uh—you’re making tea?” Matsukawa murmurs ineloquently a moment or two after the teapot begins to simmer. He watches as Hanamaki measures out bits of herbs, pinching at their dried husks and flowers and leaves before gently dropping them inside the water.

“It’s part of the cleansing ritual,” Hanamaki confirms as he works. “Bay leaves for purification, rosemary for protection, mugwort for awareness, cloves for clarity, and cinnamon.”

Matsukawa hesitates for a moment, licking at his lips. The water starts to boil and his eyes go a bit hazy from staring so openly at Hanamaki’s profile. “What’s the cinnamon for?”

“Oh.” Hanamaki turns to him, a sheepish grin poking shallow dimples into freckled cheeks. “I just love the flavor. Don’t you?”

Matsukawa nods, compulsory. In all honestly, he could take or leave cinnamon in his tea, but for Hanamaki—he thinks it might be a dangerous limb to climb out on, but he might do just about anything to get another grin like that again. 

In the corner, the wall flickers with movement that draws both of their attentions. Hanamaki’s open and mostly neutral, while Matsukawa can’t help feeling far more guarded. 

“Like I suspected, not anything malicious,” Hanamaki says to Matsukawa, though his gaze lingers on their fuzzy-edged voyeur. 

“And the blood—and the crows on the balcony?” Matsukawa practically chokes on the words as they flutter past his tongue. 

Hanamaki’s lower lips pouts out as he contemplates. He doesn’t bother looking towards the ceiling or the patio door. “Tricks, I believe—Issei, I think something’s trying to spook you,” he answers earnestly, but with the smallest hint of amusement lingering there too.

“Then they’re doing a good job,” Matsukawa says and it’s the most honest thing he’s spoken aloud in some time. 

The teapot starts to steam and Hanamaki cuts the flame with another quick snap of his fingers. “Cups, cups,” he mutters out, eyes darting to the few cupboards above their heads. 

Matsukawa’s about to pull the left most one open, but Hanamaki beats him to it, fingers tugging at the brass handle as if he’s lived there in this cramped little apartment, in Matsukawa’s company, _always_. 

He pulls down two ceramic mugs before lifting the teapot by the handle and pouring two equal portions out as though the glass isn’t hot enough to scald his bare flesh. Then, he nudges a cup towards Matsukawa.

“Honey, I know I’m a witch, but it’s not a poison brew I promise,” Hanamaki says when Matsukawa hesitates for longer than might be polite. 

Matsukawa’s still not entirely sure what it is the tea is supposed to do for him—ward off evil, something like that? The liquid tastes bitter and herbal down his throat, but the temperature is surprisingly just right and the cinnamon manages to soothe away the heaviness of his tongue. 

When he’s sipped more than half of his cup, Matsukawa looks up over the rim to find Hanamaki watching him carefully. His gaze is assessing, both in an academic sense but also something a bit darker, more suggestive. 

Despite the warmth drizzling into his stomach, Matsukawa shivers. 

“Alright,” Hanamaki says after both of their cups are finally drained, sitting to soak in the sink. “Tell me what’s been going on then.”

Matsukawa’s mouth drops open as if commanded, but he quickly realizes that Hanamaki was not, in fact, speaking to him. He follows Hanamaki with his eyes as the man starts to drift around the room with such smooth, elegant movements he looks like he’s practically floating. 

Nothing jumps out at him. No drops of blood slick down from the ceiling to taint his milky skin. No birds screech out with horrific, suicidal intent. No shadows—

Well, actually—Hanamaki’s just made it to the couch when a tiny tendril of darkness reaches out to brush against his pant leg. If Matsukawa weren’t so tuned in, so on edge, he would’ve missed it entirely. But, as it is, he’s become just a little too familiar with shadows such as this not to see the way it paws at Hanamaki’s leg like a pup seeking attention from its owner. 

It’s certainly—bizarre.

“What’s this?” Hanamaki asks, his voice low and steady. He mostly ignores the tendril creeping slowly up towards his knee now, but takes great care not to knock it loose as he bends forward to glance at the papers and splotchy ink still marring Matsukawa’s coffee table. 

“It’s ah, the deed to this place,” Matsukawa answers stiltedly. 

“This place,” Hanamaki hums, glances up through his lashes. “And the funeral parlor downstairs?”

The shadow seems to be growing just a little bit darker, a little more visible to the untrained human eye. It clings tighter to Hanamaki’s leg, though the man doesn’t seem to notice, or more likely isn’t bothered in the least. 

“Yes,” Matsukawa says. “My father left it to me when he passed last year.” 

The words feel strange and foreign on his tongue. It’s not something he speaks of often, even at the time of his father’s death, the rites, the cremation—it was just the family business.

Perhaps, sometimes, in more ways than one.

“Hmm, well then,” Hanamaki nods like he’s just put the last puzzle piece into place. “Everything’s starting to make a bit more sense.”

Matsukawa squints. The shadow seems to pulse once, twice, then slowly starts to retreat. “It is?” he blurts out. 

Hanamaki’s expression is careful. One of the rings on his hand, the one with a pretty quartz center stone, starts to glow just a little bit through the dim. “It looks to me like you’re considering putting the building up for sale?”

Matsukawa considers himself an intelligent sort of person, keen and sharp, both in mind and tongue. But he can’t seem to get anything to fall into place here—can’t find any sort of meaning behind what Hanamaki is trying to imply. His ring starts to glow even brighter, as pink as Hanamaki’s feathery hair, and Matsukawa’s eyes can do nothing other than stare at it, unblinking.

“I uh, I’d been considering it, yeah,” he mutters, feeling entranced. “Nothing’s finalized or anything though.”

“I don’t think—” Hanamaki starts before clearing his throat, tucking his fingers into the fist of his other hand, snuffing out the ring’s light and consequently forcing Matsukawa to blink. “Issei, I don’t think this place wants to be sold.”

It echoes back to him, into his ears like some sort of transient, otherworldly voice even though Hanamaki is standing right there. Matsukawa swallows, very nearly a gulp.

Hanamaki smiles, something soft and encouraging. “I’d take it as a compliment,” he adds. “It means you’re clearly capable and well-liked around here.” 

Matsukawa’s never considered the idea that, other than his fellow employees, the parlor itself might have opinions on the management. Something buoys in his chest and Matsukawa can’t quite allow himself to think of it as pride. 

“And the—” He pauses, clears his throat. Absolutely does not look down. “The shadows?”

“Yurei, I think,” Hanamaki explains in that manner of his; casually knowledgeable without sounding the least bit condescending. “Though, these don’t seem particularly vengeful. I think, there’s just some unfinished business before they can fully pass on.” 

“You mean,” Matsukawa says, light starting to bleed into the haze of understanding. “Whether or not I’ll sell the parlor?”

“In the end, it’s still your decision,” Hanamaki shrugs. “I can do a cleansing and offer the rites to force them into passing on. But I can only do so much to prevent more things like this from happening in the future. I don’t imagine prospective buyers would enjoy blood dripping from the ceiling.” 

Matsukawa finally lets his eyes roll up towards the ceiling only to find it very much _unblemished_. It’s not something he’s given an immense amount of thought towards, selling the parlor. He’d just been considering the possibility, looking into some options—the thought of _what if_ running through the back of his mind.

But, in the end, he doesn’t harbor any particularly strong feelings towards actually pulling the trigger, so to speak.

“All this—it’s happening because of that?” he mumbles out, thoughts still stringing together like silken woven webs. 

“Like I’ve said, a place like a funeral parlor is full of spirits and preternatural energy,” Hanamaki offers. “I believe there’s Mokumokuren in your lobby, by the way. But, things have been awfully active as of late, wouldn’t you say?”

Matsukawa pictures the wallpaper in the foyer, the little flutters of movement scattered like the restless eyelids of a deep sleeping dreamer. He can practically feel the crawling sensation of being watched, but somehow it doesn’t bother him as much as perhaps it aught to.

“I don’t think,” Matsukawa starts. “I don’t think I actually want to sell the place. I just—sometimes I think maybe I’m not cut out for this line of work.”

Hanamaki stares at him so openly that Matsukawa can practically count each individual eyelash where they drip shadows against his soft cheeks. “Actually, Issei, you seem particularly cut out for it,” Hanamaki says. 

Matsukawa feels something fluttery beneath his ribcage—for once, not nerves or fear. “Oh yeah? How can you be so sure?”

“A sense,” Hanamaki answers with ease.

“A sense,” Matsukawa repeats, the feeling of deja vu a comforting one.

“Yeah,” Hanamaki nods. He turns to move back towards the door, satchel in hand. “I’ve got lots of them, all the time. Comes with the territory. But you, Issei, I’ve got _strong_ senses about you.”

Matsukawa can’t help but smirk, even as he sneaks a glance at the way Hanamaki’s hips sway pleasantly with each step. “You’re flirting again, aren’t you?”

“I can flirt and be genuine at the same time, can’t I?” Hanamaki huffs back over his shoulder and there’s something in his gaze, calculating and knowing, that makes Matsukawa suspect he might just have eyes in the back of his head or something. “Now, if you’ve truly made up your mind—I’ll still perform a cleansing, just to make sure there’s nothing particularly evil lurking around, hiding behind these mischievous ghosties.”

“You talk about them like they’re cute,” Matsukawa chuckles, eyes darting around in search of a now familiar bit of darkness. 

“They _are_ cute, Issei,” Hanamaki shoots back, far more defensively than perhaps necessary, but somehow Matsukawa understands. 

Hanamaki slips his boots back on one at a time, balancing expertly as he tugs them into place. When he stands back up, his own silhouette catches from the kitchen chandelier, creeping up the wall in a long, distorted manner. Beside it, a flicker of shadowy movement.

“Sure seem to like you,” Matsukawa observes, grabbing a set of keys from the counter. He makes his way closer and just as he’s spoken the words aloud, he feels what might have been fingers on something more humanoid plucking at the cuff of his pant leg. 

He still startles at the sensation, at the phantom chill, but when his eyes dart down he can’t help feeling more curious than anything at the way his slacks wrinkle up around nothing more than a play of the light.

“They like you too, see?” Hanamaki grins, cheeks rounded and the dangling silver in his ears twinkling with his obvious amusement.

“Ah, it’s weird,” Matsukawa says because it’s true. “D’you think it could be—?”

Hanamaki turns, opens the door for them. “Your father? I have my suspicions.” 

Matsukawa feels strange stepping forward, but the shadow doesn’t seem to mind, releasing him without hesitation. “You don’t—they don’t speak to you or something?”

“Not in so many words,” Hanamaki sighs, but it’s wistful rather than melancholy. 

The walk down to the parlor is a quiet one, but not uncomfortable. A week or two ago, Matsukawa might’ve been on edge being alone with Hanamaki and that crackling air that seems to float along at his back—but now, _now_ Matsukawa’s starting to see things just a little bit differently.

There’s a small meditation garden downstairs, out the back; clean trimmed shrubs and smooth stone landscaping. He watches the way Hanamaki surveys the little solitary space and when he gives a huff of approval Matsukawa can’t help feeling satisfied.

“Good energy here,” Hanamaki hums. “I know you don’t exactly believe in all that—but spiritual guests aren’t always a bad omen.” 

Matsukawa slips in front of him, flicking through his key ring in order to find the smallish brass one that fits into the back door lock. “I uh—I think I’m starting to understand that a bit more now.”

“Oh yeah?” Hanamaki’s voice lilts up, playful. “Then I’m doing my job well, huh?”

Matsukawa can’t help letting his guard down, feeling rather comforted by the easy banter and Hanamaki’s willingness and ability to keep up. _Just my type_ , Hanamaki’s voice echoes back through his head and, yeah Matsukawa is starting to see the truth in that now.

“Searching for praise?” Matsukawa wonders before another thought clicks into place. “I guess I never asked—how much is your going rate for visits like this anyways?”

They’ve made it through the back door now, Matsukawa flicking a switch to illuminate the hall full of storage closets on one side and the cremation chamber on the other. Their footsteps are muffled by the carpeting, but each step is still distinct in the pin-drop quiet of the unattended funeral parlor.

At least, unattended by anything living. 

“For you?” Hanamaki makes a grand show of contemplating the answer. “I’m thinking dinner and maybe dessert.” 

Matsukawa shouldn’t be so shocked that Hanamaki is shameless enough to ask him out in such a way. At least, he assumes that’s what he means by that and the very sleek smirk tugging at his lips. He thinks, he _hopes_ —

“A simple herbal smoke should do it,” Hanamaki says, reaching for his satchel as they emerge back inside the lobby Matsukawa hadn’t had the nerves to invite Hanamaki into previously. 

On the wall, just behind an old oil painted portrait, a few small gleaming pairs of eyes blink open to observe the new visitors. 

Matsukawa stares resolutely at Hanamaki’s profile as he works sorting wilted and dried herbs atop the credenza, but he can feel them watching nonetheless. _Mokumokuren_ , Matsukawa thinks and wonders vaguely just how long they’ve nestled themselves in there amongst the intricate wallpaper patterning. 

Hanamaki works quickly and deftly, clearly very practiced. He bundles a bit of greenery together with twine and his rings all gleam brighter than before. Matsukawa wonders if it’s the shine from the lacy hallway lights playing tricks, or just something else Hanamaki has yet to explain to him. 

He’s got a lot to learn, he knows now. 

“Where do you get all that stuff?” Matsukawa asks, the question beading up on his tongue like condensation. 

“I grow them of course,” Hanamaki says without half a thought. He smiles, pets a gentle finger down the little bundle of herbs. “Mugwort is technically a weed, it’ll grow just about anywhere. The others don’t mind my terrace and kitchen so much—I’ve grown them all from seedlings.”

Matsukawa can’t help feeling endeared with the way Hanamaki speaks of the plants like they’re something close to his heart; children to be cared and tended for. He can very nearly picture it now—Hanamaki’s place must be just as eclectic as he is, filled to the brim with plants and warmth and energy all vying for his attentions.

Matsukawa blinks and finds all of Hanamaki’s attentions focussed solely on him.

“Ready?” Hanamaki asks and Matsukawa nods because at this point he couldn’t possibly say no. 

With a flick of his fingers, Hanamaki puffs out a pretty spark of flame just small enough to catch the bundle alight, burning for a few heartbeats, before puffing out all on its own. 

Matsukawa watches, eyes affixed to the silvery tendrils of smoke that drift up into the air, twisting and dancing around Hanamaki’s long fingers and delicate wrist. The smoke floats up and out, the scent of earthy soil and rosemary gently finding its way to Matsukawa’s nose. 

They walk the parlor together, drifting in and out of rooms. Occasionally a hint of shadow will peek out over a threshold, from behind a curtain to observe them curiously. The eyes in the walls seem to extend far past the lobby, blinking open and shut so fast Matsukawa nearly misses the glow of their dark irises. 

He still feels a ripple of unease anytime he sees something that perhaps aught not to be there, but Matsukawa also feels accepting, understanding all in the same breath of herbal smoke and—and _Hanamaki_. 

_Takahiro_ , he thinks. Herbal smoke and Takahiro.

“There now,” Hanamaki spins, light as a dancer on his feet, swirls of smoke fluttering around him. “I can’t feel anything malicious here, Issei. These are just—well, _residents_ you might say.”

“Thank you,” Matsukawa offers as sincerely as he can even as something cold and intangible taps softly at the nape of his neck. “I uh—just, thank you for everything, Takahiro.”

“Oh it’s no bother,” Hanamaki chirps, looking for once just the tiniest bit shy. “I enjoy the work after all. I enjoy that too—you saying my name.”

“Takahiro,” Matsukawa says again just to relish the taste and Hanamaki’s resulting smile. 

“Might I negotiate one more bit of payment?” Hanamaki asks, glancing up through his lashes.

Matsukawa nods, tugged by what might be tendrils of shadow or the own strings of his rapidly beating heart. “Anything,” he says, emphatic.

“Anything, hm?” Hanamaki purrs and pulls him close.

The kiss is soft, sultry, indulgent. Hanamaki’s lips are as plush as they appear, Matsukawa taking the time to suck at his lower lip and bring about a pleasant grumble of sound deep from within Hanamaki’s throat. Hanamaki in turn slicks his tongue forward, wet and warm, making Matsukawa’s stomach clench hard. 

He reaches out, gripping fingers into the silk of Hanamaki’s shirt. The material is so thin he’s able to mold his palms straight against Hanamaki’s waist, the narrow dip a perfect hold for Matsukawa’s hands. They kiss a bit more fervently, pressing into one another and Matsukawa can’t even be bothered by the thought of the potential voyeurs that live comfortably in the parlor’s walls.

After some time they pull back, to allow their lungs to breathe or maybe just to gaze upon each other through the amber glow dim. On the wall the old pendulum clock strikes midnight, lulling them further towards the witching hours with its dulcet, somber tones. 

“Hey, I was wondering—” Matsukawa whispers out through the meager space left between their lips. “How did you become a hedgewitch, anyways?”

He expects Hanamaki to say something cliched like _it’s a calling_ or _I was born with a special gift_. He certainly doesn’t expect the answer he actually gets in return, but he can’t help but to admire the accompanying full-lipped smirk. 

“Oh, you know,” Hanamaki says, comet dust glint in his eyes, pulling Matsukawa steadily into his orbit. “It’s the family business.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hlovelyyy)   
>    
> 


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